


And Again

by redtoblack



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Eliot Waugh, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, References to the Mosaic, Top Quentin Coldwater, lots of softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26765959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack
Summary: The penthouse is empty, the couch is comfortable, and Eliot's hair is soft. Really, what else was Quentin supposed to do today?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 28
Kudos: 110





	And Again

**Author's Note:**

> While I'm plot wrangling for some other longer works, this one has been lovely to spend time on. It brings me much-needed joy, and I hope it spreads some good vibes out there. Many thanks to users Rubick and shockvaluecola for betaing this piece and the P&P folks for egging me on, it would not be what it is without your support!
> 
> Wear a mask; Black Lives Matter; take care everyone. Enjoy <3

Eliot’s hair is so soft. It’s brushing against Quentin’s forehead from above, and maybe he should be focusing on the fact that his tongue is also currently in his mouth, but his hair is just _so soft_.

They have the penthouse to themselves today, an increasingly frequent situation as Julia, Kady, and Penny work between the Library and the safehouse. Alice wouldn’t drop by without sending a bunny, and the Fillory gang has been pretty wrapped up in political figuring. So when Eliot turned off the TV with a smile and leaned against Quentin until he was on his back on the couch, he wasn’t exactly complaining.

Everything about Eliot is soft, these days. It’s about eradicating every trace of the Monster, yes, but it also brushes against the quiet place in Quentin that remembers another time Eliot let go of his harsher edges. It had taken a few more years at the Mosaic, but he had settled into gentle wrap clothing, breakfast on the table when he got an early start, sweet smiles for Quentin and Teddy as they stepped into the garden hours later. A strange sense of both loss and gain accompanies the sight of now-Eliot in linen pants and sweatshirts, always bringing snacks to whoever was home, staying involved as much as he could while he was still recovering.

But his skin feels the same as it always has: warm and smooth as Quentin slides his hands up and over the small of Eliot’s back, the flex of his muscles solid and familiar. His thighs are tucked up securely around Quentin’s hips, caging in the insistent, honeyed heat growing between them. Eliot bites gently at Quentin’s lip, pulling it between his teeth, making Quentin press up close under him and lift Eliot’s sweatshirt the rest of the way off, tossing it to the side. He wants to feel every movement, every shift of Eliot’s body as they move together without a destination.

Lips locked in a hot-wet slide, Eliot’s tongue slipping deeper into his mouth, his hips rolling a little harder against Quentin’s. Bolts of heat spark like lightning down Quentin’s spine, spreading through his thighs and pooling in the curled arches of his feet. Having Eliot under his hands, wrapped over Quentin’s body, all warmth and certainty — it’s everything. Everything he had once, and lost, then had for a lifetime and lost again and again and _again_ , and now that he has it back?

He’s not letting him go _anywhere_.

Quentin slips his palms down along Eliot’s back to wrap around the backs of his thighs and pull him in as close as he can. The hard line of Eliot’s cock grinds up tight against the cradle of his hips, and _god_ it makes him want to be even closer, skin to skin and further — a high, wanting sound slips from his lips, and Eliot licks it away.

He doesn’t want to stop grinding up into him — like, ever — but he does to make room for a hand in between them, pausing at the tie of Eliot’s pants.

“Yeah?” He checks breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look into Eliot’s eyes, dark and rich above him. Eliot hums his assent into Quentin’s mouth, smiling against him in a way that makes the rest of the room go blurry.

The tie comes apart easily, and Quentin tugs the fabric out of the way before anyone can get tangled up in it (they don’t need a repeat of _that_ ). Eliot isn’t wearing anything under it — he must have been planning this all day, sitting through breakfast and cleanup and TV, just waiting for the right moment to tip Quentin onto his back and just — _Jesus_.

In the early days at the Mosaic, Eliot would always joke about ruining Quentin for anyone else’s cock. Which, for one thing, took _some nerve_ , considering the way he pulled the “not when we have a choice” card that day in the throne room. But like — it was always completely, embarrassingly, _for some reason really fucking arousingly_ true. Not even just size or whatever, because, yes, okay, it’s big, but more than that, it belongs to Eliot, and that means by extension it _belongs to Quentin_.

And it’s the perfect size for Quentin to wrap his hand around, giving the smooth skin a few pulls as Eliot sighs into his mouth. He’s hard already, and settling into a steady rhythm gets him leaking where Quentin twists his wrist over the head — the way he knows Eliot likes it, the way that gets him one of those aching little gasps every single time.

So perfect. And _his_. Whoever could have guessed?

Quentin trails his fingers through the slickness gathering at Eliot’s tip, his other hand on Eliot’s ass encouraging him to rock forward in a rhythm that zings straight to Quentin’s own cock. Hushed grunts and whines fill the intimate space between them, unhurried and unabashed. Quentin loves it, wants more of it, wants to make Eliot feel like that as much as he deserves. He’s gonna take care of him.

Fingers slippery with precome, Quentin lets his knuckles trace a path along Eliot’s thigh to where his position has him already spread open above Quentin’s lap, and sets in rubbing gentle circles along the tight ring of muscle. His brain catches on a loop of sensation, _wet, hot, soft, mine, wet, soft, hot, Eliot, hot, soft, wet, mine._ Eliot shudders against his lips with a low, pleased groan, dropping his head to rest against Quentin’s shoulder, melting boneless over him.

The rocking of his hips shifts to a slow, shallow, rhythmic drag right along Quentin’s cock, the kind that would be even better if Quentin weren’t currently wearing sweatpants, but he’s not about to interrupt what is very clearly doing it for Eliot to take them off.

“Oh, fuck me,” Eliot swears, murmuring into Quentin’s collarbone, “you’re perfect.”

Oh, _okay_ , that — okay, the invitation was probably unintentional, but Quentin feels the words _viscerally_ , a shudder down his sweat-damp back all the way to the tip of his aching cock. “Yeah?” He asks, wetting his lips and keeping up the steady tease at Eliot’s rim like he wasn’t almost shaky with wanting more. “You want that?”

Eliot moans, sucking messy, biting kisses into the available skin of Quentin’s chest. His ass jerks back against Quentin’s fingers, nearly forcing them inside while he’s still tight, before he lets off with a gravelly chuckle.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice already sounds wrecked, even though Quentin’s barely _done_ anything. “Like this?”

“God, yes,” Quentin says, not caring how thready and desperate it comes out. A syrupy rush of heat is tingling its way through his body, shoulders, chest, hips, knees, toes and all the way back up, and he wants, _wants_ —

Not yet. Logistics.

“Should we — um. Clothes,” he gets out, shuddering under the feeling of Eliot’s tongue tracing patterns on his neck. His body has other ideas — one fingertip is pressing, pressing into the soft heat of Eliot’s body before he can think about it.

And he can’t stop _now_ , not with Eliot “mmm”ing at him, not when he says “In a minute” and just keeps riding back into it, not when he feels so fucking amazing Quentin has to remind himself that he’s not the one currently getting fingered into nirvana.

But. They really do need lube. Things are starting to drag in a way he knows will be uncomfortable very soon if they don’t hit the pause button. Quentin carefully pulls out his fingers to do a quick spell that would suffice, but Eliot grabs his hand and holds it between them, giving him a hard and full kiss before sitting up on his knees to hover over Quentin’s chest.

“I got us better stuff, it’s in our room. Let’s take this show on the road.”

His face is flushed, hair mussed, bare chest expanding rapidly with each breath, cock _fully_ upright and gorgeous right at eye level. Fuck, he’s so _hot_. Quentin could throw out the plan and just lean forward, wrap his lips tight around that beautiful head, suck and tongue at it until he’s got Eliot’s fingers in his hair, look up through his lashes and tell him to go _hard, please, all of it_ —

But Eliot’s climbing off him already, waiting at the side of the couch as Quentin heaves a couple of breaths with a short, “unghh, okay.” He can make it to the bedroom without like — mauling his boyfriend. He can. He just needs to not, like, look at him. Or touch him. And probably he should follow a few feet behind him. Just to be safe.

Naturally, Eliot makes eye contact and takes Quentin’s hand to help him off the couch.

Which is honestly just too much to ask, for Quentin to touch Eliot without _touching Eliot_. All he can do is stay seated, pulling Eliot’s hand to his mouth and taking in the nearest fingers with an uncontrollable whimper in the back of his throat.

He sucks hard at the salty taste of familiar skin on his tongue, basking in it, loving the way Eliot is drawn right back to him with a sharp inhale to pet at his hair. Letting all other senses run off him like water for just a moment, relaxing the tight curl of need between his thighs, letting it melt all through him like he took it into his very blood and let it circulate.

He opens his eyes to the rosy flushed skin and dark hair of Eliot’s chest — the arm not currently occupied with Quentin’s oral fixation is cradling his head, Eliot tucked all around him in a warm, thick blanket of an embrace.

One last heady pull and he slides off Eliot’s fingers, biting at his knuckles on the way. Eliot steps back, eyes blown but laughing.

“Roger that. Unnecessary touching off limits.” He licks over his own smile, biting down on it when Quentin’s eyes track the movement. Because of course he wants to torture him. “Come on then.”

He doesn’t wait for Quentin then, turning and walking briskly to the bedroom without a backward glance.

And his _ass_ as he walks, on full, confident display. Curves catching the light in a sheen of sweat. Fuck. Shit. God.

With a shiver as his body more than his brain remembers all the things he’s done in, on, or near the ass in question, Quentin follows him in, not even bothering to close the door.

Eliot’s clothes are still on the ground somewhere in the living room, that’s like a sock on the door for the whole apartment, right? And he’d be lying if he said fucking with the door open doesn’t feel a weird mix of kinky and luxurious, so — open it is.

The contrast with their skin tones was the main reason Eliot had bought these royal blue bedsheets, and turns out, it was a fucking great idea.

Eliot’s on his side on the bed, angled up against the pillows and slowly stroking himself. Waiting for Quentin, all open and laid out. And he’s got this, this liquid, _wanting_ look in his eyes like he’s doing it for Quentin, like he wants to drink in the reaction he knows it’s going to get.

He’s exposed and beautiful against the dark sheets, and maybe Quentin’s being predictable when his lips part and he climbs wordlessly, helplessly onto the bed to join him, but he can’t bring himself to care. They’re going to be exposed and beautiful together.

It’s drowning, and it’s flying.

And yeah he’s still fully dressed, but _like hell_ is he gonna keep Eliot waiting another moment.

He sets his hands and knees on either side of Eliot’s body and slowly crawls upwards, breath catching at the up-close view of Eliot’s head slipping in and out of his palm, precome leaking out between his fingers. It makes him wanna _lick_ , have it in his throat, take it in his ass, feel it thrusting into his hand while he drives Eliot wild.

Eliot’s watching his face with a smug smile, one eyebrow arched and his tongue poking playfully out from between his teeth. “Like what you see?”

Quentin can’t help but laugh. “We’ve been doing this for literally more than half a century, Eliot, I think we can say that’s a ‘yes.’” He bends to capture Eliot’s mouth in a kiss, slipping his tongue in and out gently to hear him moan.

“Still wanna ride me?” Quietly now, just in the sweet, familiar pause for air before their lips come back together. Eliot grins and presses up, chasing after him.

“Half a century, Q, I think we can say that’s a ‘yes,’” he parrots. He has such soft lips, lips that kiss as well as they smile. Their drawer of sex things — because no, Eliot, we are _not_ calling it the Island of Misfit Toys — opens at the side of the bed. The steady movements of Eliot’s hand on himself stop, and Quentin pulls back a bit, just to make sure — but Eliot’s just reaching over the bed to grab the lube out of the air from where he called it over. Quentin rolls clumsily off of Eliot to sit on the edge of the bed and work on the clothing problem.

If it were a perfect world (or their wedding anniversary at the Mosaic, even though Fillory is by no means a perfect world), he would be aiming for seductive. Or at least sexy. As it is not a perfect world, Quentin’s aiming for perfunctory. And because it’s like a _really imperfect_ world, his underwear gets tangled in the waist of his sweatpants, making him trip, and even sitting on the carpet, the fabric insists on getting stuck around each ankle. A laugh sounds from the bed, where Eliot is leaning on his elbows watching.

“Hold still,” he says through an affectionate smile, the smug motherfucker. Quentin does, glaring at his pants as they slide the rest of the way off, and he raises his arms for his Avengers sleeping shirt to float off past his heated face.

“Whatever.”

“I said nothing,” Eliot defends, not even hiding the way his grin widens.

Quentin stands grumpily, but every step brings him closer to Eliot’s dazzling smile and soft, waiting skin, so he really can’t keep it up for long. By the time he’s hands-and-knees over Eliot again, his lips have turned upwards in spite of himself.

“Whatever,” he says again, but this time it comes out lovingly intimate and nuzzled against Eliot’s cheek.

He kisses him once, long and thorough, and then a quick press to the corner of his perfect mouth because he still hasn’t stopped _smiling_. Finally sinking down to settle his legs in between Eliot’s, Quentin strokes along the sloping lines of his shoulders, and slowly backs down his body, nosing kisses and delicately touching at every inch of skin along the way.

Eliot exhales happily above him, hands running through Quentin’s hair or resting on the backs of his hands to feel what they’re doing. He tastes sharp and solid, like mint chocolate or candied ginger, and shifts constantly with rolling movements under Quentin’s tongue.

When Quentin finally makes it down to where he can nudge Eliot’s knees farther apart and settle in the middle, one hand massaging at the base of Eliot’s cock, it’s fully hard again (if he had even softened up watching Quentin struggle to get undressed, which knowing Eliot was definitely not a guarantee), thick and full and radiating heat against Quentin’s whole palm.

Up on his elbows at the head of the bed, Eliot is taking in deep, steady breaths and watching with rapt attention. Quentin looks up at him, letting go of Eliot’s cock to skim his hands everywhere nearby. His hip bones are solid and elegant, the skin delicate at the divot on each side; muscle firm on the edges where they lead into his strong thighs; everything sensitive and intentional in between. Still watching, still carefully holding that space as Eliot looks back at him, Quentin massages his inner thighs, kneading lightly with his knuckles, working his way inward to the stretch of skin behind his balls. He cradles them for a moment, then leans to pull them into his mouth, tasting the extra layer of musk that sits on his skin this far down.

It’s a heady sort of intimacy, knowing he’s loved this taste longer than he’s technically been alive.

Letting them drop gently from his mouth, Quentin leans down a little further. Locks eyes again with Eliot, his open face still just visible across the planes of his torso at this angle. Silently does their usual bundle of protection and cleaning magic. And slowly, steadily drags the flat of his tongue against Eliot’s entrance.

Eliot’s eyebrows lift together, his next breath coming out wobbly, and he arches to press himself down harder against Quentin’s mouth. Quentin wants to chase this, stay here and lick into him until he comes on his tongue and fingers, but they can do that another day. Tonight has a different goal, and it’s not his fault that every single part of Eliot is ridiculously enthralling. He allows one more lick, a hard, sloppy kiss right against his rim, then pulls back, holding Eliot’s hips down with one hand so they can’t follow his mouth.

Eliot flops back against the pillows with a dramatic groan. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says with a vague hand wave, “I love everything you do to me.”

“But?” Quentin prompts, finally opening the new bottle of expensive lube and generously slicking up one hand.

“But stop being such a _tease_ and —” Eliot cuts himself off hard with a guttural noise, possibly connected to the fact that Quentin’s fingers are, for the second time tonight, warm and wet and pressing circles into his rim.

“Yeah. That,” he sighs as Quentin presses in with the tips of two fingers, Eliot’s already loosened muscles relaxing into the stretch. An easy, almost absent look of pleasure comes across his face, and it’s one of Quentin’s favorite things every time.

“Good?” He asks, his fingers bottoming out and finding an easy rhythm.

Okay, Quentin knows it’s good. This is one of the few things he _knows_ he can do _really fucking well_. But he still likes to be told.

Eliot hums, a low, rich, rumbling sound, and rolls his hips to meet the thrusts of Quentin’s fingers. “Yes. More please.”

Quentin adds his ring finger, pumping all three stiff and straight inside Eliot’s body and letting the circle of his hips direct the pressure. The pads of his fingers are brushing over Eliot’s prostate after just a few strokes. He adjusts his angle so Eliot doesn’t have to lift his hips for it, palm splayed protectively over his abdomen, and strokes firmly at the familiar spot inside.

“ _Mn_ , yeah, right there,” Eliot tells him breathlessly. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open, letting out a stream of soft, guttural noises that just light Quentin up from the inside. He bites his lip as Eliot’s hands fist into the sheets on either side, head thrown back and curls strewn haphazardly across the pillow, his hips still working in tiny pulses that make his cock bounce against Quentin’s hand.

 _Fucking Christ_ , Quentin wants to fuck him.

Which — is the plan.

Thank fucking god.

It does mean Eliot shouldn’t get much closer than this, so Quentin slows the pump of his fingers to a barely-there pressure, as much as doing so feels like a crime.

“Are you ready?” He asks, and swallows. His voice is rough.

“Yeah, I’m so good.” Eliot says, catching his breath. His flush has spread down over his chest, and Quentin probably looks the same. Eliot pushes his way up to sitting, kissing Quentin’s mouth and chin and jaw as Quentin gently removes his fingers.

God, what had Eliot been doing up there? His curls are wild and bent, flopping across the middle of his face, hanging over his eyes and sticking up at the sides. It’s — it’s _hot_. No one could do sex hair like Eliot could do sex hair. Well — almost no one. Panting in the afterglow with Eliot on one side of him and Ari on the other — fuck if _that_ shouldn’t have solved the Mosaic right there.

Quentin rakes a hand over Eliot’s forehead, clearing the errant locks from his face. It feels like brushing away rivulets of water. Eliot moans and pulls against it until he’s at Quentin’s mouth again, and then he’s tipping Quentin’s head back to sit up over him. The bottle of lube lifts in the corner of Quentin’s eye, then Eliot’s slotting their lips together and his eyes are closed and the next thing he feels is heat and _tight_ as his boyfriend’s hand grips his cock hard, dripping trails of slick warmth that seem to sizzle on his skin.

Eliot gives him a few swift, breathless strokes, letting off just as he has to keep his hips from fucking up into it. He makes an appreciative noise and leans back, manhandling Quentin by the shoulders until he’s leaned up against the pillows where Eliot had been a minute ago. “Eager, huh?”

The view of Eliot leaning over him, hands planted firmly on his shoulders, locks of hair all over his face above a panting grin, is enough to make the rest of Quentin’s sense go out the window. He can feel the rush of blood to his hips and cock in anticipation, and gasps out, “Fuck, always, I need to be inside you.”

“Mm, yeah,” Eliot agrees in an exhale that is way hotter than it has any right to be, straddling Quentin and leaning forward so he can lick a burning stripe across Quentin’s neck. “Let’s do that.” The rocking of his hips slides their erections against each other, friction sending fireworks through Quentin’s nerves. His cock is a live wire. His entire _body_ is a live wire.

Eliot lifts off of Quentin’s thighs, pausing with his open mouth right above Quentin’s, sharing his breaths as he reaches down to line him up. Stealing one more sweet, brief kiss, he leans back the rest of the way and lowers himself down, pressing slowly until the head of Quentin’s cock slips inside, then easing himself back and forth on just that, pulling Quentin in a tiny bit deeper each time.

The velvet slide on his cock, the pressure of Eliot’s fingers grabbing at his thighs, watching the dreamy, delighted look on his face as he fucks himself on Quentin, it’s — incandescent. The sensations are all mixed up, melted in with the quick beating of his heart, the near-physical gravity that makes him want to pour everything into this, give Eliot all that he has and receive the same.

Quentin’s body is tight, wound up like a spring that just keeps getting coiled closer together. His muscles are tense, just like Eliot’s are under his hands, everything hot and sticky as sweat beads up on their skin. He shivers as it drips from Eliot’s face and neck, plastering his curls there, making the light gleam along his sharp jaw and collarbones, the clenching muscles of his stomach.

Even the healed scar dashed across his gut is beautiful. It flexes with his movements, a promise that Eliot’s alive, that they made it and now Quentin gets to share his future. Eliot’s moaning on every downstroke by the time Quentin’s halfway inside, reaching, _reaching_ with his hips in a silent plea for Eliot to give him that, give him more.

Okay, maybe not silent. As Eliot takes another inch and the wave of _hotwetslicktightohfuck_ slaps Quentin smartly in the face, he hears his own high, drawn out moan like it’s coming from outside himself, and shit, that’s — good? The muscles in his abdomen tighten suddenly, shaky from keeping his hips still on the bed. 

“ _Fuck_ , Eliot,” Quentin groans out.

There’s a rough sound in response, and Eliot’s fingers intertwine with his for a moment, giving a sure squeeze as he shifts to lean back on Quentin’s thighs, pistoning hard on the last couple inches of his cock. The view of himself slipping glistening and flushed in and out of Eliot’s body is hypnotic. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists.

“Come on, let me feel you, I want it,” Eliot urges him.

Quentin’s mouth drops open around a silent moan, finally letting go and working his hips up to meet Eliot’s rapid thrusts. Pressing himself deeper on every stroke until the thick lube is spattered on his thighs and his balls slap upwards to kiss the cleft of Eliot’s ass.

“Just like that,” Eliot gasps, eyes shut tight.

It’s constant, decadent, a shifting squeeze on Quentin’s cock, slick like silk and hot like lava, enveloping Quentin until he has to shut his eyes, it’s so much. He’s getting close, orgasm building like a living thing swirling behind his hips, waiting to be let out. Each harsh cry from Eliot’s parted lips goes straight there, feeding it, nurturing it, egging it on.

“El —” Quentin starts, breaking off as Eliot shifts his angle again. Their thrusts must be centered right on his prostate, because his groans suddenly change pitch to desperate, airy whines. The grip on Quentin’s legs gets impossibly tighter, definitely leaving bruises that’ll show up later, a clandestine record of who Quentin belongs to. He wants it the same way he wants Eliot to feel this tomorrow.

“You wanna come on my cock? No hands?”

“Want you, yeah,” Eliot’s head is thrown back, spine arching elegantly all the way down to where his ass is full of Quentin.

God, he’s so beautiful.

“Fuck, okay, so good — are — are you close?” Quentin gets out. He could come right then if he didn’t focus. He tries not to zero in on the sounds falling from Eliot’s open lips, but the only alternatives are his own hitching breaths and the obscenely wet, slapping skin-on-skin noises as Eliot’s hips slam down onto his over and over and over and over again.

“Yeah, _unmh_ , I’m close, more, fuck me,” Eliot pants above him, so breathy it’s hard to catch. The air around them feels liquid, hot and thick as time zeroes in on the pounding of Quentin’s pulse, the sweet clutch and release of Eliot’s body. 

Quentin grabs higher on Eliot’s hips to hold him up, fucking in hard. Bites down on his lip as Eliot curves his hips to take it.

“Yes — Quentin — Q —” is all Eliot gets out before his breaths are coming in short, jagged sighs, and then he’s clenching down hard on Quentin’s cock, fingers digging beautifully into the soreness of his trembling thighs, come releasing in clean spurts across his stomach.

Quentin keeps going as Eliot shudders and moans low in his throat, barely aware of anything besides his faltering thrusts as his brain short-circuits on _Eliot_ , pushing inside up to the hilt in his crushing wet heat, letting it tip him over the edge. He holds himself there, quaking apart at every seam while buried deep, _deep_ in Eliot’s ass. Someone’s crying out, or maybe crying, and it’s maybe Quentin.

When he wanders his way back into awareness, his chest is no longer heaving, thighs no longer shaking in Eliot’s grip, and his cock is trapped soft and sensitive between their bodies. Everything is thrumming nicely under his skin, like they’re on some kind of ship where you can always feel the vibrating hum of the great engines. The ringing in his ears echoes away until he can hear Eliot’s breathing, quiet and relaxed, right in his ear where’s slumped across Quentin’s chest.

Eliot’s scratching his nails gently through the short hair there, quietly humming to himself, a warm and rich Fillorian tune. Turning to press a lazy, open kiss to his temple, Quentin gets a taste of salt and the smell of sex.

“Back with me?” Eliot murmurs into his neck. His breath is warm — and Quentin’s skin is cold, the suddenly still air around them quickly cooling off and leaving him with goosebumps.

“Yeah.” He bends to kiss Eliot on the cheek, if a little clumsily, as Eliot sits up next to him. “That felt amazing.”

Eliot chuckles and goes through the spells to get them cleaned and dry, the familiar swish of soft magic sweeping across Quentin’s bare skin. “If that’s a surprise, I clearly have not been doing my job correctly.”

He presses his lips gently to where Quentin’s spent cock meets his body, straightens again to massage circles into the darkening marks on Quentin’s thigh. There’s a spell to make them go away, but back at the Mosaic, Quentin had worked up the courage to say he didn’t want to use it; Eliot had never asked in this life, had never needed to, half-remembered habits automatically filling in the blanks.

“Shower now or later?” He does ask, hand going to Quentin’s other leg to rub the soreness away.

Quentin scrunches his face at him. “Later. Come back here.”

A laugh spills across Eliot’s face, and it’s the most beautiful thing that has happened, ever. “Now how can I refuse a request like that?” He says, cheeks rounded in amusement, and summons their favorite blanket from the armchair by the window as he curls by Quentin’s side.

Quentin wiggles into place under Eliot’s chin, already feeling the air turn tender and warm under the literally magically soft blanket. He has an arm wrapped around Eliot’s waist and a leg hooked between his thighs, snuggling into the warm rise and fall of his chest.

He could stay here forever, cradled in Eliot’s embrace and wrapped lazily around his body. Stay until he fell asleep, until Eliot fell asleep, until they woke up and decided breakfast in bed sounded good, and then scratch the breakfast actually, and Julia would probably come by to ask —

“Oh shit, I forgot,” Quentin says suddenly, pulling back to look at Eliot, who immediately has his fingers lightly on the edges of his face and a surprised crease in his brow.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“What time is it?” Quentin starts to sit up, looking between all the surfaces in the room for a clock, did they have a clock in here? Shit, where was his phone? How long had they —

“Quentin, hey,” Eliot says, voice firmer now. He presses against the back of Quentin’s shoulder, nudging him to lie back down and face him. “What’s got you worried?”

“Well, I don’t know, um, how long it’s been, like, I don’t know how long we’ve been here, and Julia and Kady and Penny could be here any minute, and your clothes are on the floor and our door is open and we, like, very obviously just had sex, um.” A little sound comes from the kitchen — it could be the fridge, but it also be someone’s keys turning in the lock. Is that what the lock sounds like?

“Quentin.” Eliot cuts in, thumbing at Quentin’s lip where he wets it with his tongue. He looks fondly exasperated. “Number one, I am sure they’ve seen worse. I know Penny has, and I’m sure you and Julia have had...incidents. Plus the walls are thin. Number two,” he waits a moment, and his rumpled clothes come floating into the room, dropping into the laundry basket as the bedroom door clicks shut and locks behind them. “Is that better?”

Ah.

Face a little heated, Quentin lets himself relax back into Eliot’s waiting embrace. “Yeah,” he grumbles through a tiny smile. Eliot’s lips press sweetly to his forehead with an exasperated huff, but there’s still a bit of tension in his body that is simply unacceptable.

Quentin pulls back again, imitating his earlier, “Oh shit, I forgot!”

“What?” Eliot’s eyes are wary, his instincts probably telling him he doesn’t actually have to be worried. That, or Quentin’s just bad at lying to him, which actually makes him feel more warm fuzzies than it has any right to.

Quentin grins and leans to kiss him softly on the lips, loving the way the last bit of tension just melts away, the gentle surprise on his face as they part. It’s the same look he got that first time Quentin kissed him at the Mosaic, and Quentin will never, ever tire of seeing it again.

“I love you.”

He hopes he’ll get to see it for a whole lifetime more.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Eliot says, tucking a strand of Quentin’s hair behind his ear. His eyes are luminous and his smile sweet, reflecting everything Quentin feels back at him, and it feels like this time, forever is right here.


End file.
